


Among The Mist

by Kissed_by_Circe



Series: Copper And Crimson And Rust [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beta Wanted, Character Death, French Revolution, Reincarnation, Tudor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:51:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: Jonsa in Tudor times, during the french revolution, and maybe more!Set in the same AU as ‘Oh, wash away the blood’, and kind of a prequel, because Valofwinterfell’s sweet comment inspired me 😊❤️





	1. June 1579

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa Snow (*1556), a lady-in-waiting of Elizabeth I and her husband, Jon (*1553) enjoy a quiet morning. 
> 
> Sorry in advance for the unhappy endings!😥

June 1579

She tries to wriggle out of his arms, but he just hugs her closer to him, burying his face in her auburn waves and sighing contently. The warm darkness of their bed is just too comfortable, her soft form just too pliable in his arms, to let her go now. They have time, he whispers in her ear, all the time in the world, and she laughs, her voice sweet and dulcet, when she swats him on the shoulder and gets up despite his protests.

The sun is already up, basking the room behind the mustard-coloured curtains of their canopy bed in a pale golden shimmer and making her hair glow like copper and gold as she skips around, picking up some rings and brooches, twisting her hair into neat plaits and pinning them up, rolling a pair of stockings up her bare legs, and Jon leans back into the velvet cushions and watches his wife – his _wife_ , finally, after all this time – getting ready for the day.

“Come back to bed. _Please_ ”, he whines, close to begging and not really caring, not here, not with _her_ , because she’s seen all of him and loves him still. He’s bared his very soul to her, gave her his heart to keep it next to hers under her breast, and she took it with a smile and a kiss. “It’s barely dawn. No one’s awake yet, least of all the queen.”

“Oh, but I am awake, and you are, too.” She grins at him, and throws some clothes in his direction. “You’d better get dressed before sweet Alys comes and helps me with my gown and hood. Or do you want her to see you like that, _again_?”, she asks, and, delighting in the blush creeping up his neck and ears, bites her lip to keep herself from grinning at the memory.

“She’s not here yet, so it’s still too soon to get up.”, he grumbles, and she turns around laughing and starts rummaging through her chests, searching for the dress she wants to wear today. “The sun’s up, so _I_ am up, too. We can sleep longer in winter, lover, but now… it’s almost midsummer, long days and short nights, and we ought to use them, do we not? We ought to dance and play cards and laugh now, and when winter comes and the nights are long and dark and cold, we’ll hide in our bed and won’t come out till the snowdrops bloom.”

“We won’t be sleeping in winter, you know?”, he says, his voice soft, his gaze softer as it rests on her middle, still rather flat, but it’ll swell soon enough, and she comes over to him and allows her fingers to play with the stumble on his cheeks for a moment. “See? We’ll have to spend our time being awake instead of asleep, for we won’t have time for masked balls and debates and hunts when our child has arrived.”

He pouts, rather adorably, and she sighs. “We’ll sleep and cuddle once we have our child. You know, we have all the time in the world, lover.”

Five months later, she bleeds to death, leaving him alone with their new-born daughter.


	2. October 1794

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last hours of Sansa Tyrell, Duchesse de Hautjardin (*1767)

October 1794

Her hair, long and red and copper and crimson, falls to the floor, slowly, like feathers in the wind, like apple blossoms swirling around her in the orchard. And when the blade scratches her skin, cutting away her beautiful, her famous red locks, close to her head, to make it easier for the executioner, she closes her eyes and remembers better, happier times. Reading fairy tales and romance novels in the treetops and picking apples and – falling of a branch and into Jon’s arms.

That one summer had been so wonderful, filled with laughs and whispers and shared secrets, with gentle kisses and soft touches in the dark, before her father had sent her to her mother’s family in France, to serve Marie Antoinette as a maid-of-honour, and thrown Jon out on the street for daring to touch her, before she promised him to return to Scotland, to Winterfell, to _him_ , as soon as possible. The next summer, she was a wife and a duchess, and the summer after that she became a mother.

She’s spent years at court, a favourite of the French queen, known for her wit and her charm and her clothes, she raised her daughter, sweet, innocent Alicent, and somehow, somewhere along the way, she forgot about her promise. She never returned to her childhood home, or even Scotland, she realises with tears in her eyes, and she never returned to him. And now they’re all gone – her parents and siblings dead of the pox, her friends gone missing in the commotion of the revolution, her uncle, the duc de Vivesaigus and her husband, the duc de Hautjardin, executed alongside their families.

It’s just her and Alicent now. In a few hours her daughter will be an orphan, and the only thing left of her will be a few strands of bloodied copper hair. And is it not what she deserves? After spending her youth playing cards while people fought over scraps, bathing in milk and honey while the citizens of Paris starved, wearing powder and diamonds and while muslin while the revolutionist sew flags of red and black, she feels like her sentence is, in some twisted way… just, and fair.

She was young, and didn’t know about poverty, but being blind and deaf and naïve does no longer seem like a good excuse.

Saying goodbye to her daughter is hard, leaving her behind in prison is harder, but remaining stoic and keeping her head high on the way to the execution side is surprisingly easy. Maybe it’s because she’s used to hiding her emotions, because a man’s leer and rotting cabbages hit her just the same, because whispered gossip and shouted slurs cannot pierce through her skin, which feels as hard and cold and sharp as a mask of diamonds.

And then, on the steps of the scaffold, she stumbles and falls into eyes darker than onyx.

His voice is a feather brushing her skin, and she clings to him, desperate, drowning in onyx and crimson and smoke, begging him to help her, to take Alicent to Scotland, to her brother’s widow and their children. He promises, a storm in his eyes and fire in his hands and sadness, so much sadness, in his kiss that she can’t take it. Pushing him back, she climbs the steps, smiles at him, broken like shattered glass. He turns around. He doesn’t watch her die. She wouldn’t want him to, he knows.


	3. July 1916

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff! Nurse Sansa Stark (1895-1916) and Lieutenant Jon Snow (*1892) meet for a secret rendezvous🌸💏

July 1916

“We could visit my grandmother”, he whispers into the quiet darkness under the trees, far behind the medical tents where men and women alike are fighting for his comrades’ lives, where men are dying right now, and here they are, hiding in shadows and clinging to life just as desperately as all the others do, and she looks up with her mouth hanging open in surprise. He rubs the back of his neck, and looks up at her with his head hanging down like a schoolboy asking a pretty girl to dance with him, as if he hadn’t pinned her to a tree and lost himself in her pliant and warm body only moments before, as if she hadn’t bitten into the cotton of his shirt to muffle her screams when he fell to his knees before her to worship her like a goddess.

“Um, yes, I- I would like that. To meet your family, I mean”, she smiles at him, reassuringly, and helps him with the buttons on his pants, gently shoving both his right hand and the stump of his left arm aside. “I wrote to them about you, you know? They want to meet you”, he says, while she makes them look presentable again, her movements quiet and sure and with some strength in them. When she arrived here, she couldn’t see blood without feeling faint, hesitated too often, and her touches were more like gentle caresses, but now she works fast and efficient like a real nurse, sure of herself and confident in her movements.

His words make her smile even wider, and the nervousness returns to his face, the gauntness of his features a stark contrast to the softness of his eyes and the youth still so prominent in the curve of his cheeks. “They will love you, I’m sure of it”, he grins, and then he starts stammering, “and my grandmother, on my father’s side, Rhaella – she has this beautiful ring, a family heirloom, with a small diamond, that my grandfather gave her when they got engaged, and I- do you want it?” There are men dying behind trees and canvas, but Sansa doesn’t think about them when she starts giggling. She’s learnt how to shove those thoughts aside, how to live in a cocoon of love and laughter.

“Lieutenant Snow, are you asking me to marry you?”, she asks with a flirtatious grin while she straightens out the lapels of his uniform jacket, and when he nods, so shyly and nervous, as if she might say ‘no’, or laugh in his face, she can’t help herself - she pulls him closer by his lapels and answers with a kiss, hoping that it conveys all the love she feels for him. “Our sisters and Jeyne will be my bridesmaids, and we’ll buy a little house near Hyde Park, and we’ll call our first daughter Alys”, she whispers, and he smiles. He smiles, and smiles, and smiles, through the pain of another operation, to save what’s left of his forearm, and through the news of his father going missing. He only stops smiling when Nurse Poole comes to him with tears in her brown eyes.

He never asks his grandmother for her ring.


End file.
